


The Pursuit of Happiness

by ashtopop



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Historical References, Mild Kink, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5640541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtopop/pseuds/ashtopop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never expected her. She, who was sunlight pouring through dusty, stale air and blue sky at the edge of the glowing sea.</p><p>She never expected him to be a cuddler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pursuit of Happiness

He never expected her. She, who was sunlight pouring through dusty, stale air and blue sky at the edge of the glowing sea.

She never expected him to be a cuddler.

“Why Hancock?” she asked, her head against his chest. Sprawled across the couch, limbs entwined and his blood rushing with chems. Her lips are red-stained, but not with the drugs, with lipstick and the swell of a thorough kissing. He didn’t answer around the Jet inhaler in his mouth, merely raising a muscle in his brow to indicate interest.

“'Some boast of being friends to government; I am a friend to righteous government, to a government founded upon the principles of reason and justice; but I glory in publicly avowing my eternal enmity to tyranny,'” she quoted. He took the inhaler out of his mouth in surprise.

“I think we should find you a new chem. Your mentats high is making me look bad, sister." She smiled, burrowing farther into the founding father’s ragged jacket that so suited him. The title did, too, she thought.

“I’ve always been more of an Adams girl myself, you know? Something about the ‘liberties of our country,’ the 'freedom of our civil constitution,’ and a good, cold beer."

He laughed, pulling his arms tighter around the woman in them. Her hair—too long to be practical, but he wasn’t telling her that after he saw the covetous looks she gave nice hairbrushes—brushed his chest where his shirt gaped open. She was looking at him, brown eyes open and wide, taking him in and accepting him as he was. She laughed at the look he was giving her and closed those eyes, resting her head on him again.

“Sorry, that’s the constitutional law specialty coming out. Too many mentats nights and highlighters stuck in my bun.”

“That’s fine, sister. Got any more Hancock?”

She groaned against him flirtatiously, arching her back against him, then worked her hand under his pants. Maybe it should have felt vaguely blasphemous to have her hands down the pants of a founding father (if not literally _around_ a founding father) with the patriotic time she’d grown up in, but she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn.

“Not enough,” she said, palming him.   He dropped his Jet inhaler on the ground, swallowing hard.

“No?”

“No. He wore a,” she started kissing down his neck. “wig? I think he was charged with smuggling.”

“Smuggling? Man after my own heart,” he said, thumbing down her collarbone and pushing up her shirt with his other hand. “Smuggling what?” She groaned as he grasped her nipple, rolling it between two fingers.

“Tea, maybe? Tea was a big deal,” she said. He worked her shirt off of her and she moved to straddle him, breasts held enticingly in front of his face. He tried to take advantage of that fact, but she pushed her hands up to his shoulders, pushing the jacket off him and into the bed.

“Very articulate. Good thing no one was doing _this_ ,” he said, illustrating with his roving hands by sweeping a finger over her folds, "when you were trying to study,” he said. She laughed, and he watched, mesmerized, as her breasts made small circles in front of his face.

“He was born in Quincy. They have a!“ her voice hitched as he explored, his tongue laving a wet trail up the underside of her breast and his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on her folds. “a, uh, memorial there.”

“Really? Is that so.” he asked, his voice low and raspy. She nodded against his shoulder, feeling his rough fingers probe against her. He pressed one finger inside to the knuckle.

“Yeah- uh,” she said. She balanced herself on his shoulders, but he added another finger and was beginning to push slowly in and out, building pressure under her skin. With his thumb he traced a rhythm against her clit, methodical and too dexterous from months by her side, stewing his own chems and making his own bullets. He'd worried he'd gone soft in leadership, and well... time with her tended to have the opposite effect.

Her hips made little circles around his hand, urging him faster, but he continued his leisurely pace. She held her weight on her thighs, arching back so that she could grasp his cock, sliding backward to guide it to her. Hancock chuckled, but his voice cracked when she rubbed her thumb around the tip of him, spreading his pre-cum before bringing him to hers. She teased him, rubbing him around her wetness and letting the head bump against her clit, causing both of them to hiss with pleasure and tension.

He pulled his fingers out, conceding her victory, but brought them to his mouth, and, like it was the finest delicacy he’d ever tasted, licked her off of him. She watched with dark eyes, pupils blown wide with lust, and sheathed him inside her in one smooth motion. They both groaned, but she _clenched_ , making Hancock’s closed eyes pop open in surprise.

_“Ride me_ ,” he said, halfway between demanding and begging. She braced herself against him, bringing her mouth close enough that they were breathing each other’s air, and raised herself almost off of him, bring him back into her by dropping down on him, the sudden pleasure of him filling her all the way almost too much for both of them.

She picked up their pace, bouncing against him and rocking her hips as he thrust up into her with every downward press, hitting deep in a place that made her want to scream. He flipped them over easily, wiry limbs holding hidden strength. He liked her like that, spread out before him like a feast, breasts and face flushed with the excursions of the morning.

He rocked into her again, setting a pace that was punishingly fast, his boniness hitting her soft curves in all the right ways. The bed shook as he pounded into her, feeling like he was riding a Jet high with how sluggish the world was just before climax. He reached down and rubbed her clit with wetted fingertips.

When she keened, careening over the edge of her orgasm, he was ready for it. He plunged into her, extending hers and carrying him into his own, breath coming from him in harsh, staccato bursts between thrusts. He emptied himself inside her, warmth flooding her as she moaned her way through climax, Hancock cursing and praying in equal measure.

“So tell me about Sam Adams,” he said, kissing up her collarbone.

“Mmm?” she asked, her voice pleasantly hazed by afterglow, thoughts muddled in a soup of ecstasy and mentats and _Hancock_.  “You’re ready for another history lesson  _already_?”

“Inquiring minds, sister,” he said, giving her a small nip. He pressed two fingers to her entrance, pressing in the seed that was beginning to leak out, leaving her gasping at the overstimulation. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, voice muffled in the pillow she’d thrown over her face.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Vocabulary is after history."

**Author's Note:**

> considermehacked.tumblr.com for more ghoul-loving trash


End file.
